Echoes of the Lonely
by ThatRavenclawBitch
Summary: When Belle French's boss, purchases a 16th century castle in Scotland with plans to convert it into a luxury hotel, she needs someone to visit the property. Belle jumps at the chance for travel and adventure, but when she arrives in Scotland she finds that the place is purportedly haunted.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Rumbelle Secret Santa 2014 gift for Ellsweetella who prompted "Ghost/Living Person AU"**

* * *

><p>"Yes, Mallory," Belle French sighed into the receiver of her cell phone. "No, I'm absolutely sure. Everything's just fine. I have it handled."<p>

She checked her watch, noting the time difference, before returning her focus to the phone call.

"I'm still in the airport, I'll call you as soon as I get to the property."

By the time Mallory had finally hung up the phone, Belle was ready to collapse. It was 10 a.m. local time, which meant it was 5 a.m. back home. She'd barely been able to sleep on the plane, too excited about the journey ahead, and now she was regretting it. She was dead on her feet.

Mallory was in a complete tizzy wanting updates every few hours. It had been uncharacteristic and impulsive on her part to buy a property sight unseen. But the deal had been too good to pass up and she was anxious for Belle's assessment.

Now Belle had a one-hour car ride from Glasgow to look forward to. She glanced outside at the falling snow and shivered, pulling her winter coat closer around her shoulders.

It was two weeks until Christmas and she was in a foreign country by herself. It might make a lesser woman sad, but Belle was thrilled. Her father was currently holed up in a rehabilitation facility, her mother had been gone for eight years, and she'd been heart sick at the idea of spending the holidays alone in her tiny flat with a pitiful Charlie Brown Christmas tree and too much wine. But now, she was on an adventure.

When Mallory Fitz, real estate developer extraordinaire and Belle's boss, had snapped up a 16th century Scottish castle two weeks ago for the exorbitantly low price of £2,000,000, she'd decided she needed to send someone along to Scotland posthaste to evaluate the property.

Enter Belle. She had nothing tying her to New York, and jumped at the opportunity, thinking a little bit of travel was just what her stagnant life needed. She'd be there until the New Year, assessing the property, visiting the local villages, and composing a lengthy report on her findings. She was also expected to Skype with Mal on a daily basis, keeping her updated on the castle and any trouble she encountered.

She collected her luggage, which had blessedly arrived with her, before heading out to the queue of cabs outside the airport.

The castle was deceptively close to Glasgow, but winding roads and hills made the actual journey an arduous one. With the current weather, the drive was even longer.

Belle stared out the window of the car, watching the snow gently fall against the already blanketed countryside. If it kept up, she could find herself stranded up at the castle. A little thrill ran through Belle at the thought. It was like the start of one of her novels.

The rolling countryside lulled her into a trancelike state, and before she knew it her shoulder was being shaken by the driver.

"Pardon me, miss, but we've arrived."

Belle sat up, wiping at her face where she'd drooled against the window and righting herself.

The driver stepped out of the car onto the frozen gravel walk of the castle and opened her door for her. The sight that met Belle's eyes almost took her breath away.

The stone structure was enormous and Belle felt small and inconsequential standing before it. The rough stone was covered in frost, glinting in the pale morning sunlight that made it look as though it were encrusted in diamonds. The vaulted roofs were joined by snow-capped turrets, a Scottish flag waving from one in the gentle breeze. It was like something out of a fairytale.

"It's Hogwarts," Belle breathed.

"Pardon?" the driver asked as he wheeled her luggage around to her from the car's boot.

"Nothing," she answered. "It's magnificent."

"Bedlay Castle is the pride of these parts," the driver continued, hefting Belle's carry on bag onto his shoulder and heading up the walk before she could protest. "It's fallen on hard times recently, but she's still a jewel is she not?"

Belle couldn't argue with that, following along behind the driver and trying not to slip on the icy gravel.

"The original castle was built in the 1580s," the man continued. "Of course it's had extensive additions since then. The whole west wing, along with the towers, were added in the late 1700s. Then the family undertook a renovation in the 1950s, so it's all fitted out with electricity, plumbing, all the modern conveniences."

Belle was rather glad to have working plumbing. She hadn't even given thought to the idea that Mal may have invested in a ruin.

"But, you'll be getting the full tour soon enough I'd imagine," he finished off with a wink.

He lifted a hand to the large, brass knocker on the front door giving several loud raps before the wooden door swung open with a loud groan revealing a short, plump older woman.

"Well, child, we've been expecting you," she said, smiling warmly at Belle. "Come in out of the cold, then. I'm Mrs. Potts, the housekeeper. Now you'll be wanting a cup of tea, won't you?" she asked, not giving Belle a chance to answer. "Well of course you will. And maybe just a wee bit to eat as well? I'm sure I've a bit of cake saved up somewhere and perhaps some biscuits as well."

"That would be lovely," Belle said when finally given the chance.

She took her bags and tipped the driver, leaving them in the entry hall as she followed Mrs. Potts deeper into the castle.

The matronly woman led her into a large stone kitchen with a long wooden table stretched out in the center of the room. A fire was crackling merrily in the hearth, blessing the entire kitchen with its warmth. Belle gladly sat at the table, unwinding her scarf from around her neck and stuffing it in her purse.

Mrs. Potts grabbed a steaming kettle off the burner and poured a measure of hot water into a china teapot leaving it to steep. Then she arranged enough food to feed a small army onto a tray before carrying it all over to the table with strong arms. Belle was moderately impressed.

She glanced over the spread seeing half a chocolate torte, a selection of scones, a heaping plate of biscuits, several finger sandwiches and a full loaf of bread complete with thick pads of butter and jam.

"There we are," she cooed, pouring Belle a cup of tea and then another for herself before taking a seat at the table.

"Now, tell me all about yourself."

Belle felt suddenly on the spot. She'd come prepared to ask questions about the property but hadn't expected the staff to show any interest in her personally.

"Well," she stuttered. "I'm Belle French. I work for Mallory Fitz who bought the castle."

Mrs. Potts just nodded at her, face expectant, so Belle continued.

"I live in New York, but I'm originally from Melbourne, Australia."

Mrs. Potts simply nodded again.

"This is my very first time in Scotland," Belle offered, grasping for something her companion would reply to. "So if there's anything you can recommend I do while I'm here I'd be most grateful."

Mrs. Potts waved a dismissive hand at that.

"But why are you here, dear?" she asked, taking a long sip from her delicate teacup.

"Well, as I said, I work for Miss Fitz. She needed someone to come and assess the property in person…"

"I know all that," the older woman interrupted. "But a lovely young thing like you traveling to a foreign country by herself at Christmastime? It's most unusual."

Belle felt her heart sink a bit. Mrs. Potts seemed nothing if not forthright. But dwelling on her current situation was the last thing she wanted to do.

"Just not much holding me at home, I suppose," she said with a shrug, grabbing a biscuit from the tray and fiddling with it in her hands.

"Do you have a laddie back home?" the woman asked conspiratorially, patting Belle's arm across the table.

"No," she replied with a shake of her head. That was just the problem. She didn't have anyone.

"Well you're such a lovely girl it can't be long for you," Mrs. Potts said reassuringly. "You finish up that tea and then I'll give you a tour."

By the time Mrs. Potts had concluded her tour, Belle was pretty sure she'd be lost finding her way from the kitchen to her bedroom. The castle took up three floors with eleven bedrooms in total along with a great hall, a smaller side hall, a massive courtyard and several storage cellars.

When she finally made it back to what would be her bedroom for the next few weeks, she collapsed across the bed, a grin spreading across her face.

* * *

><p>"It's gorgeous, Mal," she sighed into the phone receiver once she'd gotten hold of her boss. "The place is enormous and completely charming like something out of a fairy story."<p>

"Well that's a relief," came Mal's bored reply. "I do so hate wasting millions. Give me the rundown."

Belle rattled off what details she could, noting the number of bedrooms and other spaces that could be converted into guest rooms.

"The plumbing seems a bit antiquated and I'm sure the whole place needs to be re-wired, but it's really not in bad condition that I've seen."

"That's fantastic news, Belle," Mal sighed. "Have you had any issues with the staff or the locals? I can't imagine turning a historic property into a hotel is going to go over well."

"Nothing yet, but I've only been here four hours," Belle smirked.

"I like your enthusiasm," her boss deadpanned. "Keep me updated."

With that, Mal hung up and Belle took a moment to get acquainted with her new living quarters. The stone walls were covered in tapestries and thick curtains hung in the windows to keep out the draft. A large four-poster bed with green tartan coverings dominated the center of the room. A fireplace large enough for Belle to stand in was set into one wall with a plush armchair sitting in front of it. She could already imagine how often she'd fall asleep reading in that exact spot.

Despite Mrs. Potts' awkward questions, Belle felt at home here. With a shock she realized she hadn't felt at home anywhere since her mother died almost a decade ago. It was too bad this visit was temporary. All too soon she'd be finished with the assessment and headed back to the states.

She leaned back against the pillows, closing her eyes for a moment. But the events of the day and the jetlag soon caught up to her and she fell into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

><p>Belle awoke hours later to a feeling of cold.<p>

Sitting up suddenly, she shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. She was still dressed in her clothes from the day and the fire in the hearth had died down to mere embers. She stood up from the bed, padding across the room to where her suitcase was still lying unpacked. She quickly rifled through it, pulling out a pair of thick flannel pajamas and pulling socks on to her freezing feet. Then she threw another log on the fire, stoking it back to life.

She was disoriented after her long nap, but she knew it was late. The sky was pitch black behind her curtains.

Stifling a yawn, she headed back toward the bed looking forward to burying herself beneath the covers when there was a loud bang directly outside her door.

Belle jumped, her heart in her throat before she calmed herself down. The castle was old and creaky, there were bound to be bumps in the night.

She'd just settled herself back in bed when there was another bang, this time more muffled as though whatever made the noise had moved further down the hall. Perhaps it was Mrs. Potts, though she was certain the old woman lived in the village and didn't stay at the castle overnight. She'd have to inquire if there was anyone else staying on site when she saw the housekeeper tomorrow.

Pushing those thoughts out of her mind, Belle tried to fall back asleep. But she kept waking up, having fitful dreams of a sad man with tired eyes. By the next morning, she could remember none of it.

* * *

><p>Morning found a bleary eyed Belle settled at the breakfast table as Mrs. Potts heaped enough food to feed twenty onto a plate for the castle's one and only guest.<p>

"So, Mrs. Potts," Belle started, tucking into her eggs and tattie scones. She'd missed dinner the night before and was consequently voracious, "you've served this manor for a long time, haven't you? What can you tell me about it?"

"Well it's a fine house, is it not?" she replied, pouring Belle a steaming cup of tea. "I've worked here since I was a girl. My mother was the cook back when the family still lived here. She's long passed now, rest her soul. But the family started spending less and less time here as the years went on. All went off to the city, you know. In the recent years they've only been in for special occasions. It makes it quite dreary for us, but you know we do our best."

"What prompted the family to sell?"

"Oh I suppose they don't have much use for a big old country home these days," Mrs. Potts said diplomatically. Eyeing Belle for a moment, she narrowed her eyes shrewdly before leaning closer. "I think the young master needed the money, quite frankly. He's troubled."

"The sauce," she added with a dramatic whisper.

Belle raised her eyebrows at that, enjoying the older woman's company. She would have to insist Mal keep her on as housekeeper once the property was converted.

"Is there anything else I should know?"

"Oh, well, it's a wee bitty haunted, you'll know," the woman said, offering Belle a plate of sausages.

"Haunted?" she asked skeptically. "As in a ghost?"

"Oh aye," Mrs. Potts continued cheerfully. "They say it's the spirit of the old Lord Bedlay. And such a sad story that was."

The woman was a natural storyteller, knowing just how to snare her audience without sharing too much. Belle was on the edge of her seat.

"Well?" she prompted. "What's the story?"

"Oh well that would have been some hundred or so years back. Lord Bedlay lived here with his wee boy Master Bailey. His wife had run off when the boy was just a bairn, not much cut out for motherhood I suppose, so it was just the two of them.

"They were very close by all accounts and Bailey was his father's pride and joy," Mrs. Potts continued with a small smile. "But then the war started and all the boys were going off to die all over the continent. Bailey was the only son and heir, but he was also a headstrong young lad. He wanted to fight for God and country, but he was still a boy and his father tried his best to keep him away. In the end he defied his father and ran off and volunteered. He was killed at the Somme, and the old Lord never recovered."

"That's terrible," Belle said with a shake of her head. "So the son haunts the castle?"

"Och, no child. I just said he died in France didn't I? It was when the old Lord heard news of his son's death he was so overcome with grief that he walked out into the loch just calm as you please and was never seen again. The house passed to a distant cousin and that was the end of Lord Bedlay's line."

"He drowned himself?" Belle asked, aghast at the dark turn of the story.

"So the story goes," Mrs. Potts agreed. "I don't know how much stock you put in ghost stories, lass, but I've seen the old Lord myself. He's mostly harmless as long as you don't get in his way, mind."

"You've seen him?" Belle asked, surprised.

"Aye," the woman agreed. "He'll pop up on occasion, scaring the maids just bold as you please. He's got a wicked since of humor, but as I said, mostly harmless."

Belle was suddenly reminded of the banging outside her door the night before. She didn't for one moment believe a ghost was responsible, but it seemed prudent to ask.

"Mrs. Potts, do any of the staff live on the property or ever stay overnight?"

"No," she replied with a shake of her gray head. "Most live down in the village and only come for the working hours. You're all alone up here at night, dear."

Perhaps it was the woman's story, but Belle felt a chill up her spine at that thought.

* * *

><p>Belle spent the next few days on a detailed assessment of the ground floor. There were several issues with the foundation that would be costly, but otherwise the old building was in good shape. She conducted interviews with the staff including Mrs. Potts as well as the maids, Babette and Louise, the groundskeeper Mr. Williams, and the old butler, Mr. Coghill.<p>

"The housekeeper says the place is haunted, but other than that I haven't found anything too objectionable," Belle said, propping her laptop up so she could better see Mallory on the screen. She'd finally managed to get her wireless hotspot up and running and could now fulfill her daily Skype obligations.

"Haunted?" Mal asked, her eyes going wide. "By who?"

"Some Scottish Lord who died at the turn of the century."

A grin spread across Mal's face.

"Does he wear a kilt?"

"What?" Belle asked, taken aback.

"The ghost," Mal clarified. "Would he wear a kilt?"

"I don't know. I highly doubt there's a ghost at all."

"Fuck, with all that _Outlander_ shit Scotsmen are so hot right now. We could capitalize on this, Belle. Create some romantic highland adventure for our guests. The bored housewives will eat this shit up!"

"We're not technically in the highlands," Belle pointed out. But Mal wasn't listening to her anymore.

"We could build a whole package around it. Every good hotel has a ghost after all."

"I'm glad you're thrilled at the idea of me sharing a house with a vengeful spirit," Belle said wryly.

Mallory leveled her with a look.

"You and I both know there's no such thing as ghosts," she said slowly as though talking to a child. "But see what you can find out about this guy. Having his tragic history up on the web site could be a nice little feature."

"I'll keep asking around, check out any records I can find," Belle agreed before signing off.

Closing her laptop, Belle grabbed the digital camera Mal had provided her with and decided to set about taking photos of the property. Mrs. Potts had shown her around on her first day and she'd become well acquainted with the ground floor, but there were still parts of the castle she hadn't explored. She'd been focused before on rooms that could be used for guests, but Belle was intrigued by the rest of the house.

She left her room, heading up to the mostly unexplored third floor, stopping to take photos as she went.

She snapped one of the wide third floor corridor covered in a thick red carpet, then scrolled through to make sure it looked okay.

"That's weird," she murmured to herself, noticing a glare in the left corner of the photo. There were no visible lights in that area, nothing to catch the glint of the sun. Frowning she raised her camera to take another picture, turning the flash off this time.

Looking down at the display screen, she saw the hallway complete with the same glare, only this time it was closer to her.

Her eyes shot up, fixed on the place a few feet in front of her. The hair stood up on the back of her neck, a prickling feeling along the skin of her arms.

"Hello?" she called to the empty corridor.

Unsurprisingly there was no answer.

Belle let out a little laugh at herself. She must have let Mrs. Potts' ghost story affect her more than she thought.

Glancing down the hallway one more time, Belle shook her head and turned to enter the first door on her right.

Stepping into the room sent all thoughts of ghosts and old Scottish Lords far from her thoughts.

It was a library!

The large room was filled with floor to ceiling shelves positively stuffed with books. Two leather armchairs sat before a large fireplace. A library table sat in the middle of the room with a thick Atlas displayed on top and a drinks cart was nestled in the corner. It looked as though it had once been a well-loved room.

Belle walked around the room, running her fingers along the spines of the books, enjoying the feel of old leather beneath her fingertips.

Her eyes were drawn toward one narrow tome, nestled in the middle of one of the shelves. She reached for it, hands slightly trembling. It felt as though something was pulling her toward it, a strange need to see what was inside.

"Oh, Miss French, there you are," Mrs. Potts' voice came from the open doorway, cutting through Belle's concentration as she dropped her hand to her side. "I just wanted to tell you we're all headed home for the day."

"So early?" Belle asked, glancing out the window at the weak winter sunlight. It was still an hour until nightfall at least.

"There's a big snowstorm blowing through tonight and none of us relish being stranded overnight," the woman explained. "I'll try to be in tomorrow, but the roads here get quite treacherous in the snow. You may be on your own for a few days until the plow comes through."

"Oh," she returned, surprised. "Okay."

"Don't you worry, dear," the older woman smiled kindly. "There's plenty of firewood and a well stocked larder so you won't go hungry. Help yourself to whatever is available."

"Thank you, Mrs. Potts."

"If there's any emergencies, you can phone me in the village. We'll send someone straight up by foot."

"I'm sure I'll be fine."

The woman nodded, wringing her hands nervously as she glanced around the library, before backing away. It was only after she'd gone that Belle realized how unusual it was that she'd never actually entered the room.

* * *

><p>Belle spent the rest of the afternoon with a thick, leather bound volume on the history of the Wars of the Three Kingdoms, curled up in the armchair in front of the fire. She was so engrossed in her book that she didn't realize how late it had become until her stomach gave a loud grumble.<p>

The light outside had faded to inky darkness leaving the few lamps scattered throughout the library as the only source of light. Glancing out the window, Belle could see nothing but darkness. The village was miles away, Glasgow even further. She was utterly alone. But it was so much better than being alone back in New York. Here, her loneliness was an adventure rather than a curse.

She served herself a late dinner of leftover steak and kidney pie, making herself a big cup of tea before heading back up to her bedroom to once again put on her flannel pajamas and thickest pair of socks.

Central heating. That was something Mallory could invest in. The snow had really started to come down beyond her covered windows, the stiff wind howling and causing the ancient stones to creak.

Belle stoked the fire, adding another log to keep the blaze going before settling down in the armchair. Wrapping a warm woolen throw blanket around her shoulders, she cracked open her much loved copy of Jane Eyre. Something about being in an old castle during a snowstorm and by herself at night had her thirsting for something gothic.

She'd just got to the part where Jane discovers the mysterious fire in Rochester's room when there was a loud bang outside her room just like on her first night in the castle.

Belle jumped at the intrusion, gripping her book and turning to stare at her closed bedroom door.

It could just be the pipes, she reasoned. It could be the creaking, groaning, wheezing of an ancient structure as it settled. It could be a million and one things that were not related to a ghost.

A clatter came from outside the hall, as though something had been knocked over.

Belle leapt up, heading to the bedroom door with her blanket still wrapped around her. Maybe the castle had a cat?

She flung the door open, staring out into the darkened corridor. A few feet down from her room, a pedestal had toppled over sending a large vase rolling down the hall on its side. A strange prickling settled over her skin, as though she were being watched.

"Is there someone there?" Belle called out to the darkness outside her room. It would all seem rather silly if it turned out she was talking to herself, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she wasn't alone in the cold, dark corridor.

After a long moment of silence, she let out a laugh, wrapping her blanket more firmly around her shoulders and retreating back into the room. She was being ridiculous, letting the words of a superstitious old woman and her novel cloud her judgment. Belle knew there was no such thing as ghosts. It was just a sad story told by the locals to amp up the tourism to the castle. There was nothing supernatural happening at Bedlay.

She turned, heading back toward the bed when she felt a prickling along the back of her neck as though someone were breathing just behind her.

Whirling around she saw nothing but empty space, but the back of her neck felt warm despite the chill air.

"Mrs. Potts?" she called, though she knew the old woman wasn't there. No, Belle was all alone in a massive, possibly haunted castle at night. The realization hit her like a ton of bricks. She was stranded. There was no way out.

What had seemed like an adventure suddenly seemed remarkably stupid.

"Be brave, Belle," she whispered to herself. There was no need to panic. On the off chance that there really was a ghost, Mrs. Potts had described him as friendly. It was no use getting herself worked up over Casper.

She climbed up on the four-poster bed, settling with her legs folded underneath her and wrapping her arms around herself.

"Okay," she said, voice trembling ever so slightly. "Maybe I'm crazy and maybe I'm just talking to myself, but if anyone's listening, could you please just show yourself? It would make all of this rather less frightening."

"But rather less like a haunting," came a deep, rumbling Scottish brogue from near the fire.

Belle squealed, whirling towards the fireplace and almost toppling off the bed.

"You're real?" she asked breathlessly.

There was a long moment of silence, and Belle had almost convinced herself that she'd imagined the voice, when there was a sudden rippling in the air near the armchair. It distorted for a moment, like the air over the hot pavement on summer days back home in Australia, before congealing, forming into a more solid shape.

Belle blinked twice, hardly believing her eyes when all of a sudden there was a man sitting in her armchair.

He wasn't quite solid, a pearlescent quality to his form, but it was definitely a man. He was wearing a dark gray suit and tie, rather old fashioned. He looked a bit older than Belle, though it was hard to tell with the shifting pattern of the armchair almost visible behind his head. His face was handsome, with a sharp pointed nose, large soulful eyes and a thin mouth that was currently quirked up in a small smirk.

Somewhere at the back of her mind, Belle noted that Mallory would be disappointed in his lack of kilt.

"Well, dearie, you look like you've seen a ghost."

"Lord Bedlay?" she managed to rasp out, her throat feeling drier than the Sahara Desert.

"Ah, so my reputation precedes me," he said, standing with a flourish. He seemed rather pleased. "I will say you're taking this much better than some of the others, Miss…" he trailed off, waiting for her to introduce herself.

"French," she replied. Were there any rules about not giving your name to ghosts? If so she'd just violated them. "Belle French. Others?"

"Maids mostly," he grinned. "They tend to run screaming from the room if I become corporeal."

Belle continued to stare at him, kneeling in the middle of her bed. She was either having an extremely vivid delusion, or there was a ghost in her bedroom. She wasn't sure which option was more disconcerting.

"Well," the ghost of Lord Bedlay prompted. "You asked me to reveal myself and here I am. Don't you have anything to say?"

A million questions rushed through Belle's head, but she only had the presence of mind to voice one word.

"How?"

The ghost shrugged, the movement jostling his hair that hung long, almost brushing his shoulders. It was unfashionably long for a man who'd lived in the early 1900s.

"How indeed? _There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy_."

"Hamlet," she said, quirking her brow. It seemed a rather apt play for a ghost to quote from.

"Fitting, isn't it?" he smirked again.

"According to Hamlet, all ghosts speak Latin," she pointed out.

The ghost shrugged, walking toward her a few steps. "I was never any good with languages."

Belle had to stifle a small laugh at that. Apparently she knew more Latin than a ghost. She probably spoke better French, too.

"Why are you here?" she asked, relaxing now that it seemed the ghost meant her no harm. She sat back on her heels, getting more comfortable.

Lord Bedlay frowned at her question.

"I'm not sure," he said finally. "I've nowhere else to go, I suppose."

Belle could sympathize with that. She was here for similar reasons. She'd nowhere else to be. But at least she could leave when she chose, as soon as the weather let up. To be bound to the place you'd died, unable to move on, seemed the loneliest fate.

"Why are you here in my bedroom?" she clarified, realizing for the first time that an incorporeal man could have been watching her since she first arrived. She pulled the blanket even tighter around her. "You haven't been watching me change have you?"

Lord Bedlay looked affronted at that. "Of course not," he cried. "I just came in when you opened the door. Besides, dearie, I'm dead. It's not as though I could get up to much even if I had been watching you. Lest you haven't been paying attention, I've got no body."

Belle felt chastened by a ghost. And before she could dwell too much on that thought, she moved on to her next question.

"You're not going to hurt me, are you?"

He seemed friendly enough. He'd made no move to hurt her. Mrs. Potts had said he was harmless as long as you stayed out of his way. It was what happened if she accidentally crossed him that had Belle concerned.

"Well, Miss French, that depends," he stated, leveling her with a look that suddenly made her feel cold once again.

"On what?"

"On what you plan to do with my house."

"It's not yours anymore," she said softly. "When you died it passed on to your cousin and my employer purchased it from their descendant. She can do what she likes with it."

The ghost narrowed his eyes at her, crossing his hands before him and flexing his fingers menacingly. Perhaps she should have just said "nothing".

"It's my castle, Miss French," he said in a low growl. "It never should have passed out of my family. If it does not stay with someone of my blood, terrible things will happen."

"Terrible things?" Belle asked. "Like what?"

"You have one week to rectify this, Miss French," he said coolly, ignoring her question. "I trust that's enough time."

Before she could protest, the man had vanished on the spot.

"Lord Bedlay!" she called, but it was too late. She could tell from the electricity in the room, from the lack of gooseflesh on her arms, that he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

When Belle awoke the next morning, she wasn't entirely sure she hadn't had an extremely vivid dream. Personally, she blamed the food. Everything she'd eaten in the past few days had a higher fat count than anything she could ever remember eating back home.

Mrs. Potts called early to let her know there was no way up to the castle from the village, so she'd be on her own again. With a full day by herself stretching before her, Belle decided to spend it exploring the grounds around the castle. There was a nice sized garden out back, though it was frosted over with snow at the moment. There was also a little path that lead from the garden back to a wooded area a few acres from the main house.

She bundled up, putting on several layers under her warmest coat, pulling on her wellies and stuffing her unruly auburn curls under a knit cap. Her gloves were the last touch before heading out into the snow with her camera in pocket.

She came back a few hours later, frozen to the bone, after her camera had started to frost up and refuse to cooperate. She imagined the castle would be lovely come spring, but right now it was mostly a frozen wasteland. Why couldn't Mallory have made her purchase in May?

Of course, then she wouldn't be spending her Christmas at a fairy tale castle in a foreign country, so there were definite perks to the situation.

She stomped the snow out of her boots, trudging in to the warm, stone kitchen to make tea when she came face to face with Lord Bedlay, sitting by the kitchen fire.

Belle gasped, gripping the doorway with one hand as her heart picked up speed in her chest.

He was definitely real, then.

"You can't possibly have been startled by me," Lord Bedlay drawled. "Yes, I'm a ghost. Yes, I'm real. Yes, it wasn't a dream. Are we all caught up now?"

Belle leveled him with a glare.

"What did you mean last night by terrible things?" she asked.

He shrugged, giving her an enigmatic smile.

"I'll leave that up to your imagination, dearie. For now, we have work to do."

"You're right," she agreed. "I do have work to do. I'm supposed to be assessing the castle and drawing up detailed lists of everything wrong with the place."

Lord Bedlay looked affronted. "There's nothing wrong with my castle!"

"Your foundation is crumbling, your wiring is shot, you need central heating because this place is bloody freezing, there are termites in the attic, there's damaged plaster work in almost every room, I could keep going if you're interested."

"Well it's not my fault," he replied, surly. "I'd never have allowed it to fall into this state."

"Well your descendants were less prudent."

"Not my descendants," he snarled. "Distant cousins on my mother's side and my closest living relations that descended on this place and ruined it like the grasping, thieving pests they are. And now they've sold it to an _American_."

The way he referenced Mal's nationality, it might have been a swear word.

Belle snorted. "Why are you so against this?"

"Because it's my castle!" he cried.

"And what need have you for a castle?" she countered. "It's not as though you can properly enjoy it. Wouldn't you prefer it to be filled with people who appreciate its beauty?"

"People who will pay your employer very handsomely to stay here?" he asked with an arched eyebrow.

Belle let out a long sigh. Mallory had anticipated run ins with the local historic preservation groups or concerned citizens, not a surly ghost who wanted to be left alone.

"Look, we're stuck here, just the two of us, until this snow clears out," she said offering him a smile. "Can't we try to be friends?"

Lord Bedlay eyed her up and down, and something in her shivered at the feeling. "I suppose we can, Miss French."

"Belle," she corrected him. "My friends call me Belle."

"And I'm Rumford Duncan, Lord Bedlay," he replied with a nod.

"It's nice to meet you, Rumford," she said with a smile and small curtsey. She almost thought she heard Rumford stifle a laugh at that. "Now that we've got that out of the way, what exactly do we need to get to work on?"

* * *

><p>It turned out that Rumford needed her help in the library. He set her to work rifling through various historical accounts, family records and thick binders filled with hand written letters. Her work was impeded by the fact that her spectral friend was extremely vague in his instructions.<p>

"It would be helpful if you told me what exactly I was looking for," she pointed out.

"I'm not rightly sure," he said, raking a hand through his hair, starting to pace across the stone floor. Belle was struck by how human the action was. Sitting here in the firelight of the library she could almost pretend he was alive. He had ticks, he tapped his foot, flipped his hair, his chest moved in and out as though he were breathing. It was like he was a copy, perfectly preserved and going on as though he were alive. It was disconcerting but fascinating at the same time.

She wasn't exactly sure how she had become such fast friends with a ghost. She assumed she should be slightly more confused, slightly more afraid. Her entire worldview had been turned on its ear by Rumford's existence. But somehow it just felt like sitting in a library with a friend.

Belle assumed that was a reflection of her own loneliness more than anything else.

"There was something important that I knew once," he continued, screwing his eyes up in concentration. "Something that would help. If only I could remember…"

"Perhaps it would be helpful if you told me what these terrible things are that are supposed to happen if the castle passes out of your family," she suggested.

"I don't know," he admitted, looking stricken. "I only know that there's darkness coming if a member of the Duncan family is not always at Bedlay."

"Well, you're still here," she pointed out, hoping it wasn't insensitive to call attention to his status as a ghost. "Shouldn't that keep the darkness away? The man who sold the castle to Mallory wasn't a Duncan and yet the place hasn't fallen down around our heads."

Rumford stopped pacing at that, turning to look at Belle as though he'd just had an epiphany.

"You're right," he rasped. "Pardon me, Belle. I have much to consider."

"Wait, Rumford what are you…" but it was too late. He'd already disappeared from the room.

Belle sighed, leaning back in her chair and rubbing at her tired eyes. She'd spent hours staring at tiny hard to read script and her head was throbbing. She had no idea when she might see Rumford again, or what she could do in the meantime to help him, so she headed back to her room to call Mallory and give her an update on the grounds.

It was weird, not telling her friend and employer about Rumford. But she was fairly certain Mal would think she was insane. It wasn't a conversation she felt the need to have. When Mal asked her if she'd found any more information on the ghost, she simply said she hadn't had the time.

* * *

><p>Belle didn't see Rumford the entirety of the following two days. Mrs. Potts called once again to let her know that the village's one snow plow was backed up clearing other roads and wouldn't be able to head up to the castle until the end of the week at the earliest.<p>

She spent the first morning taking inventory of the furniture that had come with the property. After a solitary lunch, she headed up to the library hoping to find Rumford, but the room was empty.

She sat down in the armchair with a sigh. She missed him, oddly enough. How was it possible to miss someone she'd only spent two days with? Someone who wasn't even technically living?

But Rumford's presence had made being alone in the castle bearable. They may have only just met, but she felt connected to him somehow. He was a friend.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully and by the time she went to bed that night, she began to wonder if she really was delusional. It was easy to allay that fear when the man was right in front of her. Despite his incorporeal form, he felt real and solid. His gentle brogue washed over her and she knew she wasn't imagining him. But as soon as he was gone, it was hard to remember how real he felt.

She wrapped herself up in her blankets, falling into a fitful sleep, one plagued with dreams of heat and flames and she woke up shaking and sweating. She hoped the snowplow would make it through today. She wasn't sure she could handle another day in the castle completely on her own.

By the time Rumford showed himself again, it was only a few days until Christmas and four days since the snows had trapped her alone in the castle.

She'd made her way down to the kitchen, book in hand, for afternoon tea only to find him stretched out in a chair before the fire. The same way she'd seen him the morning after their first meeting.

"Where the hell have you been?" she demanded. If he'd been solid she would have thrown something at him, but as it was her book would probably sail straight through his head and land in the fireplace behind him.

"I needed to think," he said quietly, his face impassive.

"About what?" she asked. She was caught somewhere between relief at seeing him again and anger that he had abandoned her for so long.

"Something you said the other day in the library," he clarified. "It triggered a memory. Something I haven't thought of in a long time."

"And?"

"I know what I have to do now."

"Well what is it?" she cried impatiently. "What is it you're not telling me?"

"The curse," he murmured, turning to gaze into the fire.

"A curse?" Belle was skeptical. Just how much supernatural stuff was she going to encounter here?

"Don't sound so cynical, dearie, you're talking to a ghost, remember?"

"How could I forget?" Belle said with a roll of her eyes. She took a calming breath before heading to the stovetop to make tea, waiting for him to explain.

"There was a dark curse placed on my family centuries ago," he continued softly. "When my great-great grandfather built this castle, he took the land it stands on by force. It was tended by a farmer and his family, and my sainted ancestor wanted it for himself. He killed the man, burned down his farm and had his widow accused of witchcraft. In those days, the country had been seized by paranoia and was apt to blame witches for just about anything from political strife to dying crops to plague. The poor woman didn't stand a chance and was burned at the stake.

"But the joke was on my ancestor," he continued. "Because the farmer's widow actually was a witch and she cursed my family. His blood would never leave these lands. His family would be bound to the dirt beneath their feet for all eternity. One must always be bound. When my great-grandfather died, he haunted this place until his son died after him and so on down to me. That's why I'm still here. That's why I can't move on."

"That's quite the tale," Belle said, pulling the kettle from the burner and placing it on the hob. "But it still doesn't explain the _terrible things_. You've been stuck here for one hundred years already."

"Aye," he agreed. "That bastard cousin of mine wasn't the blood of the original Lord Bedlay. The house passed out of his immediate descendants and I am cursed to spend my days a specter here."

"Because you died without an heir?" she reasoned.

Rumford looked sad at that, looking down at his slightly translucent hands clasped in his lap.

"My wee boy, Bailey," he said sadly. "Only seventeen when he passed. I couldn't have him trapped here."

"That's why you did it," Belle gasped, dropping the teacup she was holding. It hit the floor and rolled under the kitchen table, but she made no move to retrieve it. "You drowned yourself in the loch so Bailey wouldn't have to haunt this place. You took his place."

He didn't say anything, just continued to stare at his hands.

"But you doomed yourself," she pointed out. "By the rules of the curse, without another heir you'll be stuck here forever."

"What should I have done?" he rasped out. "Forced my son to be trapped, neither living nor dead, never moving on, while I courted some chit, remarried, had another family without him? Forced to feel the presence of my child all around me, but never being able to truly be with him? Spirits are an abomination. We should not be here. To see him like that, it would have driven me mad."

He looked so pained, so sad, that Belle wished she could reach out and touch him. If he were solid she would. She would have taken his hand, hugged him if he'd allow it. But her new friend is only barely there, incorporeal and touching him is like trying to grasp fog.

"I'm sorry," she said, lacking anything else to say.

"It's not your fault," he said with a shake of his head. "I'd be in this position whether or not your employer purchased the place."

Belle supposed that was true. If the cousins who had inherited the house upon Rumford's death weren't descended from the original Lord Bedlay, Rum wouldn't be able to pass the curse on to them. When they died, they moved on. But Rumford had been trapped between worlds for a century, cursed to pay for the sins of his fathers.

And then, Belle had an epiphany.

"So the solution is simple," she said suddenly. "We have to find someone else who is an heir of the original Lord Bedlay and bring them here."

"I've told you," he said with a pained expression. "I'm it. I have no siblings, no nieces or nephews. My only child dead before he ever had children of his own. There's no one else. It's hopeless."

"Bastards," she said simply.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You noble types always had mistresses and illegitimate children," she pointed out, noting that Rumford looked slightly affronted. "You're telling me not one of your ancestors from 1580 on had a by-blow?"

"Perhaps," he said, sitting forward. "But how would we ever find them?"

"Someone must have known about them, possibly written something down," she said with a shrug. "Don't worry, Rumford, we'll find a way for you to move on. I promise."

And she meant it, she realized. She'd stay here as long as it took. She would help him. Because that's what friends did.

"Thank you, Belle," he said with a timid smile that made his ghostly face look almost boyish. He really was quite handsome. For one brief moment, Belle wondered what it might have been like if she'd met him when he was alive. She wondered if she'd have stood a chance. And then she pushed that thought far from her mind because developing feelings for a ghost you were attempting to help pass on to the next life was a one-way trip to heartbreak.

"It's my pleasure," she returned.

* * *

><p>They spent the rest of the day back in the library, rifling through pages of old journals and historical accounts of the family. Rumford was racking his memory for any stories he may have heard during his lifetime of illegitimate family members.<p>

"It's hard to remember my life," he said, after a long period of silence. "Death is so traumatic that it wipes a lot of your memories."

He didn't elaborate, and Belle didn't want to ask. It hurt to dwell on her friend's predicament, that he'd been trapped here so long that the details of his own life had faded. And truth be told, despite the fact that she was actively trying to help him move on, she didn't like to think about the fact that he was dead. He seemed so alive, so real, standing before her.

The closest she'd felt to someone in years, and he wasn't even technically real.

Belle stifled a yawn. It had grown late as they sat together in the library, heads bowed over their respective tomes. The sun had set hours ago and her eyes felt droopy with exhaustion. But Belle wasn't about to call attention to her tiredness. She had a limited time in Scotland and she didn't want to squander precious time when she could be helping Rumford.

She stifled another yawn, trying to mask it behind her hair, but Rumford's head popped up at the action.

"You're exhausted," he observed. "None of that. Off to bed with you."

"Excuse me?" she returned. "We've barely scratched the surface here."

"And the books will still be here tomorrow," he said with a slight grin. "I'm flattered you're so committed to helping me, but you're still very much alive and therefore need your sleep."

Belle had to concede that he was right. Staring at pages of tiny script as her eyes crossed wasn't doing them any favors.

"Fine," she sighed. "But only if you come with me."

Rumford's eyes widened comically at that and Belle briefly wondered if she'd overstepped her bounds. Just because she felt oddly close to him didn't mean he felt the same way about her. Maybe she was being highly improper.

But the first night they'd met he'd pointed out his lack of body when she'd accused him of watching her change. There wasn't much a body could get up to with no blood.

Rumford was still sitting – or hovering really – over one of the armchairs, eyes staring at her unblinkingly as his mouth parted slightly.

"I don't mean like that," Belle said with a roll of her eyes. "I just meant that we could talk a little more. I like your company and this castle is lonely at night."

He nodded shyly at that, standing from the chair and following her down to her second floor bedroom.

"I'm, uh, just going to get changed," she said haltingly, feeling suddenly nervous, as she never had before.

She grabbed her pajamas and slipped behind the wooden changing screen in the corner, tossing her clothes over the top of it before pulling on a nightgown and wrapping a sweater around her shoulders. She didn't know why she'd foregone her usual flannel pajamas. It certainly wasn't as though she were dressing for a ghost.

She came out from behind the screen to see Rumford standing awkwardly beside the bed, his hands clasped in front of him and his posture rigid.

He looked adorably flummoxed.

Belle climbed into the big four poster, pulling the covers up to her chin and reclining back against the pillows. All the while, Rumford merely watched her, his Adam's apple bobbing in the warm glow of the firelight.

She patted the bed next to her and Rumford swallowed again before lowering himself down onto the bed. It was an odd feeling. Belle almost expected the bed to jostle under his weight, to feel the solid presence of someone sitting beside her. But there was no movement of the mattress, just the pale form of her friend sitting beside her.

Belle rolled onto her side to face him and eventually he stretched out next to her.

"Do you sleep?" she asked, suddenly realizing she had no idea of the answer.

"Not really," he said cryptically. "I can turn my mind off, float if you will. I can pass years that way. But it's not sleep, it's just…nothing."

"Do you do that often?" she had to ask. "Turn your mind off I mean."

"Yes," he admitted. "I wouldn't have been able to stand a century of this monotony without that ability."

How sad of an existence must he have that oblivion is his best option? Belle stared into his haunted eyes and her heart broke for him.

"You said you had trouble remembering your life," she observed. "Has it faded with time or is it a consequence of…what you are?" She couldn't quite bring herself to say "ghost". Not with him lying beside her on the bed feeling so alive she thought she might be able to reach out and touch him.

"I didn't remember any of it, not the curse or my son," he said, shaking his head sadly. "No one ever speaks to me. No one has ever tried. The past one hundred years I've floated around this castle, appearing every few years to frighten someone and break up the monotony. Otherwise I was just here, sedate, the years flowing together until I didn't even realize how much time had passed."

"Rumford," she said sadly, but she had no words of comfort for him, for the hell he found himself in.

"Until you," he continued. "Something about your presence brought me back."

He reached out a hand, cupping her cheek. She could feel it, like a feather brush across her skin, light and insubstantial but undeniably there.

"I can feel you," she gasped.

"Well don't sound so surprised, dearie," he said with a smirk. "I can manipulate objects can't I? Why shouldn't I be able to touch you?"

As he said it, the feel of his hand grew firmer against her cheek, more substantial. If she closed her eyes and focused on it, she could almost pretend he was alive and solid. That he was just a man rather than the echo of one.

"Why me?" she asked. "How did I bring you back?"

Rumford shrugged, stroking her cheek lightly, almost absent-mindedly.

"I'm not sure. But from the moment you arrived here, something within me woke up."

Belle sat up slightly at that and Rumford's hand dropped from her cheek. She missed his touch immediately.

"So you did watch me," she said with an arched eyebrow.

Rumford looked sheepish, glancing off across the room.

"I felt your presence," he tried to explain. "It was like I was floating and then all of a sudden I was pulled back, drawn to you. I didn't want to frighten you away, so I stayed invisible and tried to figure out what it was about you that pulled at me."

"So the noises outside my room, that was you?"

Rumford shrugged again, looking slightly uncomfortable.

"I had to get your attention somehow."

"And the strange lights in the hallway upstairs?"

"I followed you up to the library," he admitted. "I liked that you were drawn there. It's always been my favorite room of the castle."

"So that's why Mrs. Potts wouldn't come in the day of the snow storm," Belle said, the woman's behavior suddenly making sense. "She must have sensed you somehow."

"She's always been sensitive to the spirit realm," he agreed. "It makes her particularly skittish around me."

"I can't think why," Belle said, stifling a yawn behind her hand. "You're lovely."

If it were possible, Belle thought he might have blushed at her words. As it was, his pale, colorless cheeks seemed to grow darker.

"I'm afraid you're a little sleep drunk, dearie," he deflected. But Belle just shook her head with a giggle.

"And you?" he asked, fingering one of her curls so it brushed against her cheek lightly. "What drew you halfway around the world at Christmas?"

Belle shrugged. When Mrs. Potts had asked the same question, it had seemed vaguely intrusive. But when Rumford asked, it felt like he was actually concerned.

"I was lonely," she said simply. "It seemed like a better option to be alone somewhere new and exciting than to be alone at home."

"Why are you so lonely?"

"My father's not well," she explained. "He drinks ever since my mother died. He has cirrhosis of the liver and I was worried about him so I forced him into a rehabilitation center. He hasn't really forgiven me for that and he's the only family I have. I kind of drifted away from my college friends. They all have exciting lives and families. Meanwhile I'm just…me."

"You're more than enough," he said softly. And in that moment, Belle believed him. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you're here with me."

She smiled, blushing slightly at the intensity in his eyes.

Rumford opened his mouth as though he wanted to say something else, but thought better of it.

"I should let you get some sleep," he said instead.

"Wait," she called, before he could fade away from her again. "Will you stay? Please?"

Rumford smiled sadly, reaching out a hand to push a curl back from her forehead. It was such a gentle, natural thing, and Belle closed her eyes in pleasure at the sensation, like a breeze stirring against her hair.

"Whatever you wish," he said softly.

And with her spectral friend beside her, Belle fell into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

><p>The next morning dawned bright, the sunlight cutting through the gap in the curtains and spilling across Belle's face.<p>

She rolled over on her side and opened her eyes to find herself alone.

Sitting up, she rubbed at her eyes, trying to quell her disappointment. She couldn't really expect Rumford to stay by her side all night. It must be boring to watch another person sleep when you were denied the benefit of rest yourself.

She kicked her legs out from under the covers, swinging them over the side of the bed and shivering in the cold air before she noticed him, her ghost, sitting next to the fireplace with one of her many books in hand.

"You're still here," she said, surprised.

Rumford looked up from the book with a grin that made her knees feel slightly shaky. She blamed the cold.

"There's a lovely young woman in my bed. Where else would I be?"

Belle could feel herself blushing at his compliment, but his words struck her.

"Your bed?" she asked. "Was this your room?"

"Aye," he agreed. "Mrs. Potts put you in the master suite."

"Well then I apologize for imposing," she returned, walking toward the fire and rubbing her hands together in front of its warmth. She was sure she was a mess, rumpled and hair mussed from sleep. But Rumford was smiling at her as though she were something wonderful.

"It's no bother," he assured her. "You get much better use of it than I do."

She smiled at him and he smiled at her, and Belle was suddenly overcome with shyness. It felt as though their relationship, as it were, had changed somehow last night. They were more intimate now, despite nothing taking place. Nothing ever could take place she reminded herself.

_But he'd been able to touch her._

Belle felt herself blush again and pushed that thought right out of her mind. But it was comforting to know that whatever pull she felt toward him, he felt it too. She wasn't alone.

"I quite like this Harry Potter," Rumford said suddenly, waving the book at her. "I've almost finished the book. It's terribly obvious that Professor Snape is the villain, though."

"Oh is it?" Belle smirked. "Well you just keep reading on that, then."

Suddenly Rumford's smile disappeared, the book dropping to the table next to the armchair.

"There's someone here," he said, a split second before a loud banging could be heard from the floor below them.

"I guess the snow plow finally made its way up here," Belle mused. "It's probably just some of the staff."

But Rumford shook his head.

"No, it's something else. Something strange," he said, fixing his eyes on her. "You need to answer it."

Without another word he faded out of view.

Belle darted behind her changing screen, pulling on jeans and a sweater and finger combing her tangled curls before rushing down the stairs. Another loud knock sounded against the solid front doors, and Belle struggled to pull one open only for her jaw to drop at the sight of the man on the castle's front steps.

"Good morning," he said in an eerily familiar Scottish brogue. "I'm looking for Isabelle French, might you be her?"

Belle just nodded dumbly. It was like someone had taken Rumford and filled him in. The man before her had the same pointed nose, same thin smile, same large eyes. But instead of being a pale, slightly translucent echo, he was solid. His eyes were a deep chocolate brown, his brown hair lightly streaked with grey near his temples, his cheeks pink with cold. He was flesh and blood and bone.

"My name is Tristan Gold," the man said. "I'm here on behalf of the Historic Scottish Register in Edinburgh."

Belle was so shocked at the man's appearance that she had trouble finding words.

"What?" she finally asked, and the man looked at her as though she were missing several vital brain cells.

"This castle is a listed historical site," he explained slowly. "As such any and all renovations done to the property are required to go through my client's office. This is a protected site, Miss French. You can't lift a paintbrush without my permission."

Belle shook her head. This was about the renovations to the castle. She'd spent the past few days so caught up with Rumford that she'd all but forgotten her original purpose in being in Scotland. She had been sent to Bedlay for specifically this purpose; to deal with lawyers and bureaucrats and concerned citizens alike. But this Mr. Gold had caught her off guard.

"Are you alright, Miss French?" he asked, his tone slightly annoyed.

"Fine," she replied. "You just look shockingly like someone I know."

"Lucky for him," Gold drawled.

Stepping back, Belle opened the door a little wider.

"Please come in, Mr. Gold," she said with the most pleasant smile she could muster. "You've come a long way from Edinburgh."

Gold followed her into the entry hall and Belle was suddenly at a loss as to what to do with him.

"Can I get you some tea? I'm afraid the staff is still down in the village. They haven't been able to get up here for the past few days with the snow. Yours is the first face I've seen in close to a week."

That wasn't strictly true, but Belle could hardly say she'd been keeping company with the historic castle's historic resident ghost.

"That's not necessary, Miss French," he said stiffly. "This isn't a social call."

"I bet you're fun at parties," she mumbled under her breath.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing," she said quickly. "What exactly can I help you with?"

"As I said, I'm here to make sure you don't make any unnecessary changes to this castle."

"I fail to see what my employer plans to do with a property that she's legally purchased has to do with you," Belle said, crossing her arms against her chest.

"This might say otherwise."

Gold pulled something from the inside pocket of his jacket, holding forth a folded packet of paper.

"What's this?" Belle asked, taking the paper from his outstretched hand.

"That is an injunction," he said with a smirk. "I'm afraid there are some issues with the sale of this property. Namely that the selling party had no rights to this castle."

"What?" Belle gasped.

"It seems Mr. Whale was acting outside the terms of the entail when he sold Bedlay Castle."

Belle quickly unfolded the packet of paper, scanning through it.

"You see, by the terms of the entail, the property was to go to the closest living relative upon Lord Bedlay's death without an heir. That relative was then supposed to be a steward of the property, passing down the position from father to son. There is a stipulation that the castle cannot be sold, and if the steward can no longer perform his duties, it reverts to the possession of the state."

"So you're saying that my employer doesn't own this castle," Belle said, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. This was not a situation she'd foreseen.

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Mr. Gold returned smugly. "Enjoy your time here. I'll expect you out by the end of the week."

He might share a face with Rumford, but Tristan Gold had nothing else in common with her friend.

"Why are you doing this?" she demanded. "What does it matter to the Historic Scottish Register or whoever you claim to work for?"

"I'm merely attempting to preserve an important cultural landmark," he said. "I'm one of the good guys, Miss French."

The implication of that sentence was, of course, that Belle was the villain here. To be honest, she'd stopped caring about Mallory's luxury hotel. If she had to find another job when she made it back to New York, so be it. But Rumford was trapped here. If the castle passed into the hands of the state it would cease to be privately owned. It would be a museum, a tourist attraction. He'd be trapped forever.

Her quest to find an heir to Lord Bedlay had never seemed so urgent.

"I'm sure you'll want to contact your attorneys," Mr. Gold continued, heading for the front doors. "I'm staying in the village for the time being. You can contact me at the Bed and Breakfast if you have any questions."

And then he slipped out, down the gravel walk to where a Range Rover was waiting.

Belle wasn't sure who she was more nervous about breaking this new development to, Mallory or Rumford.

* * *

><p>She bit the bullet and called Mallory first, explaining everything she'd learned that morning as quickly as possible. After all, Mal only had money on the line. Rumford had eternal torment.<p>

"Fucking fuckers," Mal growled across the Skype connection. It was 3 in the morning New York time and her boss was less than pleased to be awoken with bad news. Her blonde curls were sticking up at odd angles, a silk bathrobe wrapped around her lithe form.

"What do you want me to do?" Belle asked miserably.

"Nothing," Mal said with a shake of her head. "Proceed as normal. I'm sending Regina there first thing in the morning."

"That's completely unnecessary," Belle cried. The last thing she wanted was Regina Mills sniffing around Bedlay. Mallory's chief legal council had always rubbed her the wrong way, her smile a little too fixed and a little too sharp to be real.

"Belle, you've done a good job so far, but I need an attorney on this," Mal said placatingly. "Regina will be there soon to sort through this Gold character."

Belle gave a huff. Time with Rumford, helping him sort through the past, would be increasingly difficult if Regina was also in residence.

"Do you have any good news?" Mal asked pointedly. "Any backstory on our ghost?"

Belle couldn't help the wistful smile that crossed her face at the mention of Rumford.

"I'll take that as a yes," Mal smirked. "What have you got?"

"Oh, well, he was the lord who owned the castle. He drowned himself after his only son was killed at the Battle of the Somme."

She tried to keep things as brief as possible. There was no way she was bringing up a curse, though she was certain Mallory would go gaga for it.

"Well that's kind of pathetic," Mal huffed. "No love story at all? I guess there's no good news then."

"I guess not," Belle said sadly.

She hung up her Skype call with Mal, who promised to call her later in the day with Regina's flight information.

"So that's why you've taken an interest in me," a voice said from behind her back.

Belle whipped around to see Rumford standing in the doorway of her room.

"Rum, it's not what…"

"You want to use me for tourism," he accused. "Getting all the information you can, seeking out the monster's weaknesses."

"No!" she cried. "I told Mallory about the castle being haunted before I ever met you. She's been hounding the subject ever since!"

But Rumford wasn't listening to her. He was shaking his head looking equal parts saddened and angry.

"For a moment, I'd thought…" he trailed off. "It doesn't matter."

Then with a slight shimmer of the air, he was gone.

"Rumford!" Belle called, rushing toward the doorway he'd so recently vacated. "Come back here, right now!"

There was no crackle of electricity, no subconscious awareness of his presence. Wherever he was, he wasn't nearby.

"Fine, you stubborn ass," she called out to the room at large even though he probably couldn't hear her. "I'll just sort this all out on my own shall I?"

Never mind that there was every chance the heir they'd been looking for had just been plopped in their very laps. The resemblance between Rumford and Mr. Gold was too striking to be coincidence. He had to be related somehow.

The problem now was figuring out how to prove it. And, more importantly, how to get Gold to stay at Bedlay so that Rumford could eventually be at rest.

Rumford had said that a member of the Duncan family must always be at Bedlay; that the Duncan blood could never leave this land. Perhaps if Mr. Gold were to move on to the property permanently, the curse would pass from Rumford.

Belle sighed, leaning her head against her hands. This was all speculation. She didn't even know if Gold was actually related to Lord Bedlay or not. She didn't know how the rules of a curse worked. It was all ridiculous, and if she'd told herself a week ago what she would be up to now, she'd never have believed it.

She trudged back up to the library, hoping to find something, anything, on its many shelves that would point to Tristan Gold being related to the original Lord Bedlay. It was a long shot, but for now it was all she had.

She spent the rest of the day entrenched in the library, books stacked up around her and head swimming with dates and names of people long since dead. Mrs. Potts had arrived shortly after Gold along with the rest of the staff and the castle was back in business.

It had been nice, in a way, when the castle belonged to just her and Rumford. But that was over for the time being. If she didn't figure something out soon, the castle would belong to the state, and she'd be kicked to the curb.

When her search of the library didn't yield any information on a Gold, she turned to information on the man himself. A quick Google search told her that Tristan Gold was a real estate attorney based out of Edinburgh. From what she could tell, it seemed his work for the Historic Scottish Register was pro bono. Otherwise his clients seemed like high-end developers like Mallory. It was strange, but perhaps he simply had a fondness for old buildings.

Belle bit her lip as she weighed her options. The way she saw it, she would have to go directly to the source. She needed to question Tristan Gold.


	3. Chapter 3

Mallory phoned that afternoon to let Belle know that Regina wouldn't be able to catch a flight until Christmas Eve. New York was being pummeled with snow and flights were scarce at the moment. Belle breathed a sigh of relief that she wouldn't have the attorney breathing down her neck. It also gave her a reason to speak to Gold.

Rumford didn't make his presence known that evening, and Belle missed him. She'd liked falling asleep next to him the night before. It was comforting and intimate and now that had been ruined by a misunderstanding. She'd tried calling out to him, but he didn't answer and she had no way of knowing if he could hear her.

The next morning she decided to head into town and visit the Bed & Breakfast. She was pulling a turtleneck on over her head when she suddenly sensed his presence.

Pulling her head through the hole, Belle whipped around, looking for him.

"I'm right here, dearie," his voice called from behind her. Belle turned to see him materializing next to the foot of her bed.

"How long have you been there?" she demanded.

"I didn't peek," he protested.

Belle ignored him, walking over to the wardrobe to pull out her boots and stuffing her feet into them.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"If you'd answered any of my calls since yesterday morning, maybe you'd know that," Belle sniffed. She knew his feelings had been hurt, thinking she'd only taken an interest in his story because she wanted to use him as a draw to the castle. But she was hurt too. She'd done nothing but try to help him since they'd met and yet he was still suspicious of her.

"I was …angry," he said haltingly. "Given due reflection, I may have overreacted."

"You think?" Belle asked, cocking her head.

"I'm sorry, Belle," he said softly. "I shouldn't have assumed you were trying to use me. I haven't had many people care about me in my life. Even less in my afterlife. It takes some getting used to."

His eyes were wide in his pale face, beseeching her to understand. And she did. Not many people had ever cared about her either. It was hard to let people in when you were used to being let down.

"Apology accepted," Belle nodded. "In answer to your question, I'm going down to the village."

"Why?"

"The man who was here yesterday, the one you sensed? I think he may be exactly who we've been looking for."

Rumford seemed to perk up at that.

"Who is he?"

"His name is Tristan Gold and he looks like your bloody doppelgänger. He has to be a relative."

"I don't remember any Gold's in the family," Rumford said with a quirked brow. "And what are the odds that he would show up here, exactly when we need him?"

"It all seems like some colossal coincidence," Belle agreed. "But what are the odds of you sensing my presence for no apparent reason and waking up? What are the odds of ghosts existing at all? A week ago I had no knowledge of curses and witches and spirits and yet here we are. Maybe things are happening for a reason. There are more things in heaven and earth, after all."

Rumford smiled at her callback to their first meeting.

"Indeed."

Belle borrowed the castle's lone truck, used mostly for grounds keeping, and headed down the winding narrow road to the village.

It turned out she didn't need to go far. She was just entering the town when she spotted Mr. Gold walking along the side of the street and she pulled over quickly, throwing the car into park.

"Mr. Gold!" she called, hopping out of the cab of the truck and scurrying around to his side.

"Miss French," he returned, looking slightly confused. "What brings you down from your castle in the clouds?"

"I just wanted to let you know that Miss Fitz's attorney won't be able to get here until the 24th," she said as politely as possible.

"So I get to spend my holiday in the middle of nowhere," Gold grimaced. "How lovely."

"Or you could lift the injunction," Belle said sweetly. "You'd be back with your family in time for Christmas and everyone would be happy."

"Thank you for your concern, Miss French, but I have no family to get back to," he said with a smirk. "I'm more than happy to wait things out here with you."

Belle's smile soured slightly at that. But she needed information on this man. He could be Rumford's last hope.

"In that case why don't you join me for dinner at the castle tonight. Just because we're on either side of the case doesn't mean we can't be friends. And we are stuck here in the middle of nowhere after all."

Gold eyed her as if waiting for her to retract the offer.

"Attempting to get me drunk or seducing me won't do you any favors, Miss French," he said with narrowed eyes. The expression looked so much like Rumford it nearly knocked her back a step.

"Excuse me?" she asked, slightly outraged. "I can assure you I'm above debasing myself over the sale of a property. I only thought that since we were both alone at Christmas it might be charitable to invite you to dinner."

"My apologies," he said finally. "I'd be delighted. But only because the food at the inn is terrible."

Belle forced a smile.

"I look forward to seeing you. Dinner is at eight."

* * *

><p>Belle rushed back to the castle, stopping in to let Mrs. Potts know they'd have an extra person for dinner, and then heading back up to the library.<p>

She couldn't shake the feeling that the room contained something of importance, something that would help her achieve their goals.

She made a circle around the room, trailing her fingers along the spines of the books on the shelves when she was suddenly drawn to one book in particular. It was the same one she'd wanted to look at when Mrs. Potts had interrupted her on her first trip to the library. She'd completely forgotten about it in the time since.

It was an unassuming, battered, leather bound book, slimmer in volume than the ones surrounding it. If she hadn't felt it pulling on her, she might not have even noticed it.

She pulled the book out carefully, the stiff leather crackling beneath her fingertips with age. She was almost afraid it might disintegrate in her hands.

Cracking back the cover, she realized it was yet another journal, only shelved in the wrong area. It had been sandwiched between two encyclopedias.

The handwriting was smudged with age, the ink faded in places to where she could barely make out the words.

Belle retreated to the library table, laying the book out in front of her and grabbing a magnifying glass she had used on some of the other handwritten books.

The entries were all written in French, dated from 1583. She wondered if Rumford had ever seen it, but hadn't he told her himself that he was no good with languages?

After skimming a few pages, Belle understood that it was a record kept by the village's Justice of the Peace, noting local disputes, petty crimes and, more interestingly, the trials of those accused of witchcraft.

Belle felt the breath catch in her chest as she scanned an entry from April of 1583. A woman named Margaret Lacey had been accused of witchcraft by Lord Bedlay after his son was taken sick. It was said that Mrs. Lacey had put a pox on Lord Bedlay's heir after he had been given lands by the crown that the Lacey's were farming.

After a trial that lasted two days in which several villagers came forward with testimony against Mrs. Lacey, she was convicted of witchcraft and sentenced to death via strangulation and burning.

Belle felt slightly sick at the description of the trial that seemed like a practice in political theatre rather than a fair chance at justice.

The last paragraph of the entry noted that Margaret Lacey had cursed Lord Bedlay after the sentence was pronounced, and Belle nearly dropped the book in shock.

_The guilty party did threaten Lord Bedlay that his ill gotten lands should never pass from his family's hands, but their blood would linger in the dirt for eternity and never should they be fated to leave that place unless the sons of Lord Bedlay find love in their hearts for the sons of the Lacey family._

Belle did drop the book at that, the spine cracking and loose pages spilling out.

"Rumford!" she yelled, not caring that Mrs. Potts or any of the other staff might hear her calling for a ghost, not even caring that she'd just maimed a precious book. "Rum, come quick!"

A moment later he materialized just inside the doorway.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice concerned.

"I found it," she replied breathlessly, bending the pick the tattered journal up off the floor. "I don't know how, but this book, it was like it was calling to me. And now it all makes sense, why I'm here, why I feel so drawn to you. It's all here!"

"What is it?" he repeated, crossing the room to her.

"I'm not here just to help you pass the curse on," she said, holding the book out to his ghostly hands. "I'm here to break it."

Rumford looked at her skeptically, taking the book from her outstretched hand and flipping it open.

"It's all in French," he said dryly. Belle rolled her eyes that her prediction that she spoke better French than her friend appeared to be true.

She grabbed the book out of his hands, flipping back to the notable passages and reading them aloud.

"So, what?" he asked after she had finished, clearly still confused. "Now we not only have to find an heir to Lord Bedlay, we have to find the descendant of this peasant woman as well? Belle, that's never going to happen."

But Belle just shook her head, tears springing to her eyes.

"My mother's maiden name was Lacey," she said with a shuddering breath. "I think it's me."

"You're a Lacey?" he asked breathlessly. "That must be why I felt you, why I sensed you. Some part of me knew you were the key to breaking the curse."

Belle nodded, biting her lip. After days of worry, she'd found a way to save her friend. She was so happy for him, but at the same time terrified. If she broke his curse, he could move on, and she'd never see him again.

"So what does it mean?" he continued. "You have to get a Duncan to fall in love with you?"

Belle shrugged. "I think that might do the trick."

"Your Mr. Gold," Rumford said, the smile slipping from his face. "I sensed him as well. He must be the other half of this."

It wasn't exactly what Belle had been thinking, but she couldn't fault his logic. But couldn't Rumford see? He was still the descendant of Lord Bedlay, even if he currently found himself without a body.

"It's a good thing I invited him to dinner," she said sadly. "Though I imagine it'll take more than a decent ragout to break a curse."

"Who could help but fall in love with you?" Rumford returned with a nod. "I should be gone by morning."

His words were like a knife through her heart. To think that it was possible she'd never see him again. And all she had to do was get an attorney who hadn't shown the least bit of interest in her to fall for her in the course of the next few days as they sat on opposite sides of a legal dispute.

Now if Rumford loved her that would make things simultaneously much easier and much harder. But from the way he'd thrown out Gold's name, she thought there was little chance of that.

"Great," she agreed, her voice flat and emotionless.

"You don't sound so happy about it," Rumford observed with narrowed eyes. "Disappointed to lose your tourist trap?"

Belle felt as though she'd been slapped. How could he bring that up again?

"Is that really what you think?" she demanded. "Your apology was for nothing, then. You think I want a haunted castle, to parade you around to guests to fill up vacancies? If you think that you're a bloody fool."

"Why are you helping me, then?" he asked bitterly. "You're young and alive. You should be out enjoying that instead of settled in with a musty old spirit. I don't want your pity."

"I'm not helping you out of pity!"

"Then why?" he demanded. "Why go to all this trouble for a man you've only just met. A man who can never repay you?"

"Because I think it's unfair that your fate was determined by the sins of an ancestor you never met," she cried. "Because you're a good man who doesn't deserve the hand he was dealt. And because in spite of the fact that I want to help you move on and be at rest, and this can only end one way, I'm falling in love with you."

Belle clapped a hand over her mouth, startled by what she'd just said out loud. She'd been trying to deny her feelings, trying to ignore the way her stomach fluttered at the thought of Rumford. She knew this would just make it harder to let go. But now she'd said it, she didn't want to take it back.

Rumford was staring at her with wide eyes, his chest heaving with the breaths he wasn't actually breathing.

"Love?" he croaked, his voice raw with emotion.

Belle nodded, blinking away the tears that threatened to fall.

"I love you," she said in a small voice. "I know it's stupid and I know you don't feel the same way and even if you did it's not like anything could come of it but…"

"I love you too," he cut across her stream of words. "So very much, my beautiful Belle."

She let out a desperate little laugh, her heart exploding with joy inside her chest, only to be tempered by the overwhelming fear that he would fade away at any moment. They loved each other, and their love was doomed.

Rumford reached forward, cupping her cheek as he'd done the other night in her bed. The faint tingling sensation of his hand against her skin sent a shiver up her spine.

"You must know this cannot end happily."

"I know, but I can't help how I feel." She let out a mirthless laugh. "It's so like me to find the perfect man only for him to have been dead for a century."

"No one I met in my mortal lifetime ever looked at me the way you do," he said sadly. "Not even my wife."

They gazed at each other for a long moment, Rumford's hand still lingering against her cheek. She wondered briefly if he might kiss her. She wanted him to desperately.

"I wish I could kiss you," he sighed, as if reading her thoughts.

"Can't you?"

Rumford shook his head. "I'm afraid it takes all my concentration to manipulate matter. There's no possible way I'd be able to keep that up whilst kissing you. It wouldn't feel right for you anyway."

"I don't care," Belle said with a shake of her head.

"I'm not really here," he shrugged. "I'm energy without a body. I'm little more than fog."

"You're real to me," she cried, the tears finally slipping down her cheeks. "This is the realest thing I've ever felt."

"And yet I'm still not enough," he sighed sadly, dropping his hand from her cheek and stepping away.

"What are you talking about?" she sniffled.

"I'm still here," Rumford spread his arms wide. "A son of Lord Bedlay found love in his heart for a daughter of the Lacey's and yet the curse isn't broken. The only way I'll move on, the only way I'll ever see my son again, is if you fall in love with someone else."

"No," Belle protested, shaking her head vehemently. "Maybe there's another interpretation. Maybe my French is bad. Maybe there's more to it."

"And maybe you need to find someone living."

He blinked out, disappearing before her very eyes just as there was a sharp knock on the library door.

"Miss French," Mrs. Potts called. "Dinner will be served within the hour."

Belle quickly wiped at her cheeks, darting downstairs to change and freshen up. She had no intention of wooing Tristan Gold, but she could at least look presentable. She had no doubt he was related to Rumford, but she wanted to know how. If she was going to ask invasive questions, she needed to be enticing.

She dashed a bit of perfume behind her ears, pulling on a deep blue cocktail dress and heels before heading downstairs. She was distracted, wishing Rumford was by her side. She only hoped he'd be able to listen in as she talked to Gold.

Mr. Gold arrived at 8:00 on the dot and she led him to the formal dining room. She'd rarely eaten there since she arrived at Bedlay, preferring to sit in the kitchen with Mrs. Potts during her meals. The dining room felt big and imposing and Belle could barely choke down the dinner Mrs. Potts had prepared. She reached for her wine instead, taking long sips and trying to quell the sick feeling roiling in her stomach.

She loved Rumford, she wanted only him, and she could never have him. To hope for him to stay behind with her, remain a specter bound to the crumbling stone edifice of Bedlay Castle was the worst sort of selfishness. But damn it all, that's exactly what she wanted.

With the storm of emotions whirling through her mind, Belle was a tedious dinner partner. For his part, Gold didn't seem much for conversation and they passed the meal mostly in silence. It was only after the plates had been cleared away and Mrs. Potts discreetly let her know that she'd be heading home for the night that the conversation turned to the topic of Belle's interest.

"So, why do you have so much interest in Bedlay?" she asked Gold, as he reclined in his dining chair opposite her.

"What makes you think I do?" he returned.

"You've come all the way here only a couple days before Christmas to stop the sale of the property," she observed. "Either you're a very dedicated attorney for a pro bono client or you have a vested interest."

He looked at her appraisingly for a long moment before answering.

"My grandfather lived here as a child," he said with a shrug. "He always spoke so fondly of it, like he thought of it as home even though he hadn't been here in decades."

"What was your grandfather's name?"

"Neal Gold," he said with a smile. "A great man. My father, Henry, was his only son and I'm an only child as well. Now that they've passed I don't have much family to speak of, hence my being alone at the holidays."

"Was your father a servant here?" she asked, biting her lip. Was it possible his father had run off with a lady of the house? A sister or cousin of Rumford's? She thought a scandal like that would have been easy to find.

Gold looked at her shrewdly. "Why the sudden interest in my family history, Miss French?"

Belle was never good at deception. She had an open face, one you could read easily. She couldn't tell this man the whole truth though.

"I've been researching about the house and its former occupants," she lied smoothly. "I found photographs of a Rumford Duncan. You look strikingly like him."

"And here I thought I reminded you of a friend," he smirked. "What exactly are you getting at?"

Belle took a sip of her wine, drinking it down to give herself courage.

"I think you're the real heir of this castle. I think you're a direct descendant of the original Lord Bedlay."

Gold sat back in his chair with an enigmatic smile. He swirled the wine in his glass, taking a sip before turning his attention back to her.

"What is your basis for this conjecture beyond my bearing a passing resemblance to a photograph of someone who used to live here?"

"Your interest in the property," she shot back. "Why would a man who's apparently made millions helping to develop historical properties suddenly want to protect one?"

"You've researched me," he said delightedly. "I'm flattered, Miss French."

"So what is your plan, Mr. Gold?" she asked. "Having the sale revert to the state only to mysteriously uncover proof of your own paternity and lay claim to the castle yourself?"

Gold set down his wine glass, leaning forward against the table on his elbows.

"You're quite clever, Miss French. But the law is on my side. There's nothing you can do to stop me."

"I don't want to stop you," she returned, and the smug look on Gold's face melted away to be replaced by confusion. "I just want to know how you're related to the Duncans."

He eyed her for a long moment, sizing her up. Belle had the uncomfortable feeling that he could read her mind. He must have approved of what he found, however, because he continued.

"My grandfather, Neal Gold, his real name was Bailey Duncan. He was the only son and heir of Rumford Duncan, the last Lord Bedlay."

Belle let out a gasp at his revelation.

"Bailey Duncan died at the Battle of the Somme," she countered, shaking her head. All of a sudden she could feel Rumford's presence; sense his agitation. "His body was delivered back here. It's buried in the family graveyard."

"It wasn't him," Gold said with a shrug. "My grandfather swapped his dog tags with a fallen soldier. The body was so mangled that he got away with it. Bravery, I'm afraid, does not run in my family."

"You're saying your grandfather deserted?" she asked breathlessly. Beside her she could sense Rumford, anger and confusion radiating off him in waves as surely as if she could see his face.

"It was more than that," Gold attempted to justify. "He was an only son and he knew his father worried for the future of his estate. He was only seventeen at the time and he reacted foolishly out of fear. He was a child who never should have been in that situation. My grandfather regretted that decision for the rest of his life."

"Then why not come clean?" Belle asked. "Why change his name, and continue to let the world think he was dead?"

"He didn't want to besmirch the Duncan name," Gold replied. "Family was important to my grandfather. When he came back from France he found out his father had committed suicide. There was nothing left for him here at Bedlay so he left it behind. He moved to Glasgow, met my grandmother and reinvented himself."

"So why are you coming forward now?"

"The opportunity presented itself," he said with a flourish. "My distant cousin, Mr. Victor Whale, fell on hard times and tried to sell. It was the perfect time to act."

Belle nodded. She could see the sense of his plan.

"Now I have a few questions of my own, if you don't mind," Gold said, pulling her from her reverie. "Why is a young woman such as yourself so concerned with the history of a family she's never even met? Why is she acting against her employer? Why is she here at all?"

Belle felt a slight pressure against her shoulder, almost as though someone had placed their hand there. _Rumford. _He was giving her permission she realized. He was telling her she could speak the truth.

"I know about the curse," she said softly. "I'm attempting to break it."

Gold quirked his brow. "That old story my grandfather used to tell?" he asked. "A Duncan must always be at Bedlay and all that?"

"It's real," Belle continued. "I wouldn't have believed it myself, but then I met your great-grandfather…"

Gold held his hand up to silence her.

"My great-grandfather died in 1916," he said through gritted teeth.

"Yes," Belle agreed. "And because of that curse, he's still here."

There was a tingling sensation to Belle's right side and she knew Rumford had become visible even before she turned her head to see him. Gold's mouth dropped open, the man looking equal parts fascinated and terrified.

"So you're my great-grandson," Rumford said with awe. "My son lived. He had a family, a son of his own, a whole life?"

Gold just nodded, watching Rumford with wide eyes.

"He lived," Rum repeated wonderingly, running a hand through his hair.

"How?" Gold asked, standing and walking around Rumford as though he'd find evidence that it was all some elaborate hoax. "How are you real?"

"As Belle said, the curse is real. I'm bound to Bedlay Castle until the next heir dies or the curse is broken. Bailey was spared the curse because his final resting place isn't here."

"How do you break it?" Gold asked, coming to stand in front of his ancestor and marveling at their resemblance.

"Love," Belle answered. "Between a descendant of the witch who cast the curse and the descendant of Lord Bedlay. I thought we'd found a way, but it didn't work."

She smiled sadly at Rumford who returned her smile, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder once more.

"Between the two of you?" Gold asked skeptically. "But he's a ghost."

"And you're rude," Belle countered, standing from her spot at the table.

Rumford stifled a laugh from beside her at the affronted look on Gold's face.

"Thank you for the outrage, darling," he chuckled. "But I'm afraid one must get used to it if your true love is a specter."

A sudden thought struck Belle, one she'd been aching to try for days but only now did the magnanimity of the action become clear to her.

"True love," she whispered. "Rumford, that's it!"

Both men were looking at her with identical expressions of confusion on their faces.

"Mr. Gold," Belle said, eyes shining with the conviction of what she was about to do. "May we borrow your body for a moment?"

"What?" he asked, startled.

"I promise you'll get it right back."

"Belle," Rumford interrupted. "What are you doing?"

"Possess him," she said sadly, gesturing at Gold. "You're only moments away from freedom."

The two men shared a look of skepticism before Rumford stepped forward, his pale ghostly form merging with Gold's for a moment before he disappeared, leaving a stunned looking Gold.

"Belle?" he rasped out.

"Rumford?" she gasped, reaching forward to cup his cheeks, staring into his eyes intently. "It's you."

"Belle!" he exclaimed, grabbing her and pulling her into his arms. "I can feel you," he marveled, stroking the skin of her arms. "I can smell you," he buried his face against her hair breathing her in. "You look so lovely tonight, my dear."

Belle snuggled against his borrowed chest, holding him tight for what would be the first and last time.

"Do you trust me?" she asked, her voice muffled against Gold's jacket.

"Of course I do, sweetheart," he said, pulling back from her and stroking her hair back from her face. "I love you."

Belle nodded. "Then kiss me," she said sadly, tears pooling in her eyes. "You finally can."

Rumford looked confused for a moment before comprehension seemed to dawn across his face.

"Belle," he sputtered. "I…"

"You'll be free," she repeated. "You'll be with Bailey. You won't be bound to this place anymore."

"But I'll lose you," he rasped, tears spilling from Gold's dark brown eyes.

"To keep you here when it's within my power to set you free would be a selfish act," she said, shaking her head. "I can't ask that of you."

Rumford looked stricken, caught somewhere between hope and desperation. His hands traced her face as if trying to memorize her every feature.

"I wish we could have met in another life, Belle. I wish I'd met when you when I was living. But I'm happy to have met you all the same."

Belle couldn't say anything more. If she did, she would lose her resolve, she would never have the strength to let him go.

"I love you," she rasped out before twining her fingers in his shaggy hair and pulling him down to kiss her, his lips caressing hers gently, almost reverently.

She opened her mouth to him, letting him stroke his tongue against hers as the tears continued to fall. But all too soon he was pulling away, a strange look on his face.

"I can feel it, Belle."

"It's like the storybooks," she said sadly, cradling his face. "True love's kiss can break any curse."

"Kiss me again," he smiled, his eyes lighting up. "It's working."

So she did, pouring every ounce of her love and pain and heartbreak into one single kiss.

"I love you," he murmured against her lips. "But I'm afraid I have to go now."

Belle nodded, pulling away. She watched in awe as Rumford separated himself from Gold, the latter's body slumping to the ground as he left.

"I'll see you in another life," he told Belle with a wink. And then he turned around and faded into a beam of light that was there one moment and gone the next.

Belle collapsed into her dining chair, sobs wracking her body. She had broken the curse. No heir of Bedlay Castle would ever be cursed again. It was a good thing. But she felt as though he heart had shattered.

A low groan came from the floor next to the table and Belle gasped. She'd almost forgotten about poor Mr. Gold.

"What…" he looked around blearily. "What happened?"

"Are you alright, Mr. Gold?" she asked, dropping to the floor beside him.

"I was telling you about my sordid family history," he said slowly. "Did I pass out?"

Belle stifled a giggle. "Perhaps you had a bit too much to drink," she said diplomatically. "Perhaps I should set you up in one of the guest rooms. I wouldn't want you driving in such a state."

Mr. Gold looked up at her questioningly. "Did I kiss you?"

"Yes," Belle snorted. "But don't worry, it was lovely."

Gold still seemed out of it, Belle having to help him up the stairs and get him settled in a guest bed. She'd never been possessed herself, but she imagined it must take a lot out of a person.

After getting her dinner guest to sleep, Belle found her way back to her own bedroom only for her eyes to fall on her battered copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone still sitting on the table next to the fireplace.

The thought that Rumford would never get to find out the innocence of Professor Snape had her heart shattering all over again.

She knew she should be happy. She'd known from early on this was the only way this could end. But as she wrapped herself up in her blankets and cried herself to sleep, it didn't seem to make much of a difference.

* * *

><p>Belle awoke the next morning feeling puffy and dehydrated from crying. She realized with a start that it was Christmas Eve. Regina would be arriving today, expecting to fight to keep Bedlay Castle, but Belle found herself wanting nothing more than for it to pass on to Rumford's descendant. Even without the curse, she thought her love would always want a Duncan at Bedlay.<p>

She washed her face and got dressed, preparing to face the day after both finding and losing her True Love. Belle had come to Scotland because she didn't want to be lonely anymore. Now she found herself feeling more alone than ever.

It was with a feeling of numbness that she headed down to the entry hall, only to come face to face with Mr. Gold.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Mr. Gold, are you feeling better after last night?"

She still wasn't sure how much he remembered, if his mind rebelled at the idea of the unexplainable so much that he completely blocked out Rumford and the curse.

"Belle," he replied, looking at her strangely. His tongue darted out to flick along his bottom lip and Belle was entranced by the motion. She'd noticed Rumford had the same habit of licking his lips when in conversation. "I'm fine, dear. I hope I wasn't too much trouble."

"None at all," she assured him. "As it is, it's good you're here. I think Miss Fitz's attorney should be here any moment.

He nodded, his hands fidgeting.

"I had the strangest dream last night," he said, brow wrinkling with concentration. "Something about ghosts and my senile grandfather's tales of a curse. Did you ever hear that story?"

Belle just shook her head. "Maybe you can tell me someday."

"I think I'd like that," he agreed.

He was still looking at her wonderingly, his brown eyes searching her face as if trying to puzzle something out when a honk came from outside.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Gold," she said, tears shining in her eyes.

"Call me Tristan."

She slipped her hand into his as they headed out onto the gravel walk where an agitated Regina Mills was getting out of a cab. Whatever the future of Bedlay Castle, they would handle it together. As long as there was a Duncan at Bedlay, Belle French would be there to see them through.

* * *

><p><em>Epilogue...<em>

It was a funny thing, so slow and gradual that Belle hardly realized it was happening until one day she found herself talking to Tristan and no longer comparing his every expression to Rumford. And when he kissed her, she wasn't thinking of his resemblance to his long dead great-grandfather, but rather of him. Her Tristan.

And one night, after a long day of working in the gardens of the castle and trying to sort them into proper order, they fell into bed together. And not once did Belle wish it were Rumford's hands trailing over her skin or Rumford's mouth against her neck or Rumford's body giving her such pleasure. It was only Tristan.

And a few weeks later when she told him she loved him, she could no longer see the resemblance at all. For one love was so different from another.

And three years later, when she gave birth to their first child, a boy, Rumford Duncan Gold, she could swear her old friend was smiling down on them.


End file.
